


detente

by deadlybride



Series: kink bingo fills [9]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, M/M, Rough Sex, Season/Series 06, Size Kink, Slight D/s Elements, Soulless Sam Winchester, light humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-29
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-06-18 02:11:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15475203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: While they search for an Alpha to appease Crowley and get Sam's soul back, Dean's struggling. Sam steps in.





	detente

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Theboys](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theboys/gifts).



> written for the 2018 SPNKinkBingo, filling the 'Humiliation' square.
> 
> Posted for the SMPC, on Livejournal.

There's a guy looking at Dean.

He tongues the inside of his cheek where it's raw, curls his hand around his too-warm beer. This bar's pretty much the same as every other. Neon ads for domestics, basketball playing on the TVs on the wall. A game of pool he's going to win, and he's not going to make it pretty. He chews on the inside of his lip, watches the dude he's about to annihilate fumble the 9 just off the corner pocket. Amateur. Dean skids the rock of blue chalk off the tip of his cue and leans in, doesn't try to make it cute or fumbling or aw shucks, just rockets the 9 off the bank into the side pocket and then jerks his thumb at the top left corner, sinks the 8 smooth and easy as pouring whiskey into a glass.

"Hundred bucks," Dean says. He picks his beer up off the bar stool, swigs it down. The booze stings just a little at the cuts in his mouth.

The dude frowns at him. "You sharkin' me, buddy?" he says. He's maybe thirty, a little overweight. His wife's waiting, bored, at the bar. Bottle blonde and wishing she'd made better choices, Dean bets.

"Nah," Dean says, but he doesn't bother making it sound friendly. "Just an honest game, right? You're not gonna welch, are you?"

Narrowed eyes, but the cash gets slapped onto the table. The dude stalks off to where his wife's glaring at her chardonnay. Dean's betting things will be frosty on the ride home to the suburban two-story. Slide of the cash off the table, folded easy into his jacket pocket. Down the rest of the beer. That guy's still watching him, from the booth under the El Sol sign, and Dean lets his eyes skid right over him, heading up to the bar.

"Looked easy," Sam says. He's drinking—whiskey, straight. Like Sam never would.

Dean flicks two fingers at the bartender. Cute: high tiny chest and a round double-handful of ass, and dimples to go with it. Sam's already looking at her, but she smiles at Dean when she slides over his new beer. If Sam were Sam, he'd elbow him and say _score one for me, geekboy_ , but that's not on the table anymore.

Cold beer doesn't make life better, but it sure as hell doesn't make it worse. Dean leans back against the bar. Chubs and his wife are on their way out of the bar, a domestic already brewing up. He doesn't know if anyone saw his performance but he's not sure he's getting anything more out of the folks here. Mister and missus were outliers; most of the eyes in the room look closer to Sam's than to pretty miss bartender's. That guy's still watching him, off and on. He can feel it on the back of his neck.

"Hey," Dean says, and has to clear his throat. Sam looks at him, head on. Nothing's there. "We're gonna need another two hundred to get to Wichita. Why don't you check out that bar down on 4th—I'll see if I can scare up anything else here, and we'll meet at the motel."

Sam frowns. "That place? It looked like it was all college virgins and pink alcohol. Waste of space."

Dean scrapes his teeth over his lip. "Yeah, well, virgins might want to part with daddy's cash to impress the big tough guy," he says. "Look, Crowley wants us hunting these alphas but I don't see him paying for gas. Come on, I want to get out of this town."

AC/DC gives way to Nugent on the radio and Sam glances up at the ceiling, then shrugs. "Fine. I'll be back at the motel by four."

Glass drained, stool scraped back, and then he's gone, ridiculous shoulders disappearing out of the door. He takes a little of the ache with him, but a new one just rises up sore in its place. Dean chews on his lip. Eventually he's going to end up with a callus there.

"Hey," the bartender says, and he turns around to find her frowning at the space where Sam isn't. "You going to take care of him?"

Dean huffs. "That is a good question," he says, but he pulls out his wallet and drops a ten on the counter anyway.

Another beer. There's a card game happening in the back corner. Two guys who don't look friendly, but they sure smile when Dean wobbles up, all his confidence in the twenties he's flashing. It's not hard to lose a hand, to win a hand, to lose two more. More money on the table. They're good, really good, but Dean's not too shabby himself, and he grins when he takes the pot, and wider when he does it again. He doesn't bother when he does it again.

It's three in the morning when he goes to take a piss. It's about two minutes after that when poker player number one comes in with an ugly look and a bottle in his hand, snarling about _cheaters_ , and it's about two minutes after _that_ that Dean has to show him that only amateurs come after a trained fighter with a glass bottle in their hand, because it hurts oh-so-much when it shatters in the palm, and even more when the shards squeeze into a swinging fist. He takes a shot to the jaw, a gut punch that winds him, but he gets the guy on his back and bleeding, crashes out into the alleyway with shouts ringing behind him, and it feels like—

He gets back to the room at a quarter to five. Sam is, of course, awake, reading something on his laptop at the desk. He looks up with a mild frown when Dean swings into the room, and then rolls his eyes. "You got into another fight," he says.

"Guy didn't take too kindly to me fleecing him," Dean says, swinging his jacket onto the bed. They get kings, now. No point in the pretense of a double room, not when the other bed won't get used. If only it was for the reason Dean had hoped. He drops down to sit on the end of the mattress, working his jaw. No loose teeth, but the cut inside his mouth opened up again. Not bad. He's walking that fine line between exhausted and wired. Long day of driving ahead.

Sam doesn't ask how he is, or lecture. A neatly rolled stack of bills flies and hits Dean in the elbow. "You were right, the virgins were easy," he says. He's already back to reading whatever he's reading. Dean doesn't even want to know. "That should be enough to get us to Kansas."

The bills are greasy, the edges rilled-soft under Dean's thumb. He tucks the wad into his jacket with the rest of his take and then sits with the jacket balled between his hands and looks at Sam. He's been trying not to do that, lately. It hurts too much. Then again, lately, what doesn't.

Sam grunts at something, folds his laptop down. Dean turns his eyes away. The sun'll be coming up, soon. "I'm going for a run," Sam says, matter of fact. "We should leave by eight if we're going to make it to Wichita on time."

Dean sits there and doesn't watch while Sam changes, clothes neatly snapped back into a folded pile while he stands naked, doesn't watch him pull shorts and running shoes on. Not fair, when they've already had the fight about how Dean—can't. Fair doesn't seem to be part of this new brother's vocabulary, though. "Don't wake me up with your stench when you come back," Dean says. Force of habit.

Sam glances at him over his shoulder, and a second too late his mouth turns up. A smirk, not a smile. The door closes behind him.

Dean wipes his hand down his face. That spot on his jaw's going to bruise. Maybe he won't shave for a few days, try to cover it up a little. He kicks off his boots, sets one heel on the mattress and heaves himself onto his back into the middle of it. One hand comes to rest on his stomach, on top of the spot where the poker genius socked him. Hurts. He lets his eyes fall closed, the room silent around him. He hopes sleep comes dreamless. He could do with two hours that don't suck.

*

Wichita's a bust on the alpha front, on hunting anything at all. A long day; nothing to show for it. Sam disappears for two hours and comes back with that smug-and-fucked look on his face. Dean can't tell if Sam's doing it to punish him or if it's because he truly doesn't care. He comes back, though—he always comes back, and then he's right back in the passenger seat where Dean can keep an eye on him. Dean can't decide if it's worse when he's gone and he doesn't know what (who) he might be doing, or when he's right there and not-there.

Through the almost-midnight streets, looking for another bar. He and Sam don't talk much. They need cash, again, because Dean needs somewhere to sleep that isn't the car and Sam needs—whatever he needs, and the car has to have enough fuel to get to the next stupid, fruitless task.

The bar he picks is on the outside of town, near the tangle of the 135 and 235 and 254, traffic noise and the stink of gas rolling down into the parking lot, full of light. "You want to do the drunk friend play?" Sam says. Matter-of-fact.

He's looking at the bar, his eyes steady and still. Dean stares at him for a few seconds over the roof of the car and then has to turn away, messes with his phone like there's anyone who calls him, ever. "Nah," he says, and has to clear his throat with it. "Let's try to pull different games. Why don't you see if there's darts or a poker game you can hit—I'll come in about ten minutes, get the tables."

There's a pause. "Fine," Sam says, and then the crunch of gravel as he strides across the lot. Dean doesn't even recognize his walk anymore. Maybe if he spent less time working out that ridiculous body he could practice his empathy a little more. He leans against the side of the car, watches the door open with a burst of blues and then swing closed, hiding Sam away. Probably impossible to work out a muscle that doesn't exist.

He checks out the cars in the lot, killing time. Beaters. Lots of trucks. A big too-new SUV, flashy rims, and Dean shakes his head. Looks like they'll be taking cash from a dealer, lucky them. He works his jaw, carefully, and it's still sore. The cut inside his cheek still bleeds on-and-off as his teeth scrape over it. He hasn't taken any painkillers because—well, because he hasn't.

Ten minutes. Maybe that's long enough. He shakes his arms out, takes a deep breath. Acting time. Seems like it only gets harder.

Inside the music's good and the atmosphere's bad. No cute college girls here. Sam's holding a beer, watching a poker game happening over in the back, smiling that awful fake smile as he talks to the guys playing, waiting for his turn at the table. They probably don't notice anything wrong with him. Two pool tables and there's already a couple of guys playing, shooting the shit. One of them looks like he takes no shit. Dean heads over to the bar, orders two shots from the guy behind it and downs them both immediately. "Bad day?" says the bartender, eyebrows high.

"You have no idea," Dean says, and gets a beer, and then heads over to the pool table with booze on his breath and a grin.

Two hours later he's out in the parking lot again and the oh-so-friendly pool player's doing his best to rearrange Dean's teeth. He ducks a punch, hits the guy in the chest so hard the vibration rattles up his arm. Twist and the scrape of his boot through the gravel, and he throws a fist at the guy's jaw, but he ducks and drives in with a football tackle, catching Dean in the chest and bowling him onto his ass in the gravel. His teeth clack together so fast he's lucky he doesn't lose the tip of his tongue. Dazed for a second—and the guy pushes up, socks him in the ribs twice. "This is why you don't fuckin' cheat, cabrón," he says, leaning over with murder in his eyes, and Dean wheezes up into his face for a second before he manages to wind up and snap his fist into the guy's throat.

He collapses backwards, makes this awful choking sound, and Dean kicks at him for good measure as he scrambles back, away. The side door to the bar opens. "Hey!" someone shouts, and Dean staggers up to his feet, his breath still coming weird and fast and painful. He better not have cracked a rib. A hand lands on his shoulder and he flinches, whips around, and it's—Sam. His heart thuds in relief for about half a second before he remembers.

Sam looks him over, frowning, and glances over at the guy still laid out. "Did you crush his windpipe?" Dean wraps an arm around his ribs, shakes his head. People are starting to poke their heads out of the door and someone yells _Aurelio!_ and that means it's time to go, it's well past time to go. Sam says, "Get the car," and shoves him, and Dean staggers across the parking lot, heading for the familiar black gleam of the Impala. Unlock, collapse down to the seat, ignition and in gear and he backs up in a smooth curve. Sam's got his hands up, standing over the guy as he backs up, and one of the gathering crowd makes a move and Sam pulls his gun, just like that. Fuck, fuck—Dean rockets the car around, pulls up with a spray of gravel that hits Sam's legs and the guy. He leans over and shoves open the passenger door and Sam hops in and then they're gone, shouts rising up behind them but they're hard to hear over the roar of the engine.

"That was stupid," Sam says. He checks the slide on his gun and tucks it back into his jeans.

"Didn't have to pull a gun on them," Dean says, strain still pulling at his chest. God. That really hurts.

"You didn't have to pick another fight." Sam's looking at him across the bench seat. Dean refuses to look back. He doesn't want to know what expression he's wearing. He's tired of not recognizing them. "Is there something you want to talk about?"

Dean snorts. "Absolutely not," he says. He made another hundred before the fight, and Sam always manages to produce his half. Fuck Wichita. He's never liked this town anyway. He pulls onto the freeway junction and aims the car south. It's not that far to Oklahoma City. Maybe there'll be something worth hunting there. Something to focus on, something to pull his head away from—

"Don't get your face broken in," Sam says.

Dean's jaw clenches. The bruise there throbs. "Thanks, Pinocchio," he says, and that's the end of the conversation.

*

In Oklahoma City he wakes up to a threatening voicemail from Crowley, promising pain and torture and endless torment to Sam's soul if they don't deliver the goods on an alpha monster. Dean doesn't know what the asshole expects. He has all the incentive in the world to get Sam's soul back. It's there every time he looks at the massive awful shell in his passenger seat.

They do catch a hunt, thank god. A werewolf. The moon's only half full but Dean will take it—and they do their thing, they look at the body and they steal police info and they question witnesses, and the whole time Dean's ribs ache and his cheek keeps bleeding when he tongues at it, and Sam barely looks at him.

They find the wolf three days and two bodies later. A woman, furious and hurting. "Where's your alpha?" Sam says, gun trained at her heart, and all she does is snarl and fight and rant about _you idiot hunters, you bastards, you're just killers_ , and Sam proves her point when she lunges forward and he shoots her in the chest. Two silver bullets, perfectly placed. Dean just sits down on a pile of wood in the warehouse they cornered her in. "Shit," Sam says, lowering his gun. He sighs. "So much for that lead."

Her blood's pooling out onto the dark concrete. She had kids. Two, a boy and a little girl. He doesn't know why it keeps surprising him that Sam doesn't care, but it does. It always, always does. He opens his mouth to say—what? Sam racks the slide and then tucks his gun into the holster inside his faux-FBI jacket, props his hands on his hips as he looks down at the corpse. "What do you think, burn or bury?" he says, businesslike, and Dean closes his eyes. There'd be no point in saying a thing.

He's surly while they burn the corpse (his choice; Sam shrugged), while they go back across town, while they get back to the motel and shower off the grime and sweat of the hunt, the smoke of a charring body. Sam sort of tries to make conversation but gives up after Dean snaps at him a few times. Dinner—burgers, because Sam doesn't care about that sort of thing anymore—and then afterward Dean buys a twelve-pack and Sam looks at him and sighs and then announces he's going for a run, and then Dean's alone in the motel room and he drinks four beers in quick succession while one of the Lethal Weapons plays on the TV and then he can't take the silent empty room anymore and he grabs his keys and shoves his boots back on, and he goes out and he finds a bar.

It's not that far from the motel. Seedy, like all the places he's been picking. He lets the Impala idle in the lot for a few minutes while he looks at the squat low building, the neon shining through the dingy windows, and then he gets out of the car and stretches. He's not an idiot. He knows what he's looking for. Cash is one thing, but they still can get cards. This is all an excuse. Well, so what. Not like Sam's going to care, or even notice.

Inside it's country music—can't win 'em all—and pitchers of thin yellow beer, and a bartender who looks like she professionally wrestles in her spare time. Three pool tables, in the back with dingy yellow spotlights hanging over them. He slides onto an empty stool and orders a whiskey, and the woman looks him up and down like he's meat but hands it over just the same. She reminds him a little of Ellen, with a worse attitude, and he slings the whiskey back in one long swallow, letting it burn down his throat. He licks the inside of his cheek, lets the booze sting against the sore spot. He'll get a refill before he goes to join one of the games. No cheerful drunk play, not tonight. Tonight he can play the desperate card. It won't be hard to sell.

He gets his refill and takes a slower sip. The bar's got a low constant racket, under the godawful music. Mostly men, though there are a few ladies here in sparkly jeans and cowboy boots with their tits hanging out of their faux-cowgirl tops. One of the games at the nearest table seems to be a round of nine-ball with three guys all showing off for their girlfriends. He plays with his beer mat, flips it off the edge of the bar a few times and snatches it quick in the air, waiting for an in, and then—someone's watching him.

He doesn't move. Flips the mat again. The awareness of it trickles slow down his spine, prickling over his skin. He knocks back the rest of his whiskey, looking into the spotty mirror behind the racked booze, and there's no one he recognizes, not right away. His heart thumps in his throat. He swallows the flooding spit and orders a third whiskey, and then stands up, sways just a touch for effect. An easy target—see? He left his gun in the car and no one can see the knife in his boot, or the thirty years of violence wrapped easy around his bones. Look at the sad drunk stranger, chewing his lip as he watches money change hands over the pool table. Check out the bruise on his cheek, the split in his lip. Watch him take out his wallet and slip out a five—a lonely, pathetic five—and clutch it in his sweaty hand as he comes closer, as he puts on a brave smile and says, _hey fellas, mind if I join you?_ Immediate glares, and then slow smiles. Look at the sad drunk whiteboy. Easy pickings.

An hour later, fifty bucks richer. They were better than he thought, and not nearly as angry as he hoped. _Better luck next time_ , tall dark and smug had said, and Dean had taken his cut and smiled because there wasn't anything else to do, not without pulling the whole bar down on top of him—and he's not there. Not yet. He's standing outside with a beer bottle dangling against his thigh. Nights like this he wishes he smoked. The stars are all covered up with city-smog and there's nothing in his lungs he wants to save. He leans against the wall. Checks out the cars in the lot. Beaters. Trucks. A '79 Mustang that’s not in terrible shape. Something's tugging at his attention but he's more than a few drinks and he just—he can't care. Not now. Whatever it is will happen, or it won't.

A door creaks open. Dean stays where he is and takes a long swallow off his beer.

"That is you."

He takes a breath. His heart thuds up his throat. When he looks over, there's—a guy. Tall, very tall, darkish hair and broad across the shoulders, though Dean can't really see his face in the dim neon.

"That's me," Dean agrees, easily, but he wraps his hand more firmly around the neck of his beer bottle. "What's it to you?"

Guy doesn't come closer, but he folds his arms across his chest. Fuck, he's big. "Saw you," he says. His voice is deep. A faint echo of _wrong_ crawls over Dean's scalp. "You're a scammer, right? Not very nice."

 _Nice_. What the fuck. Dean lifts his chin and puts his shoulder against the wall, squinting. "You trying to be friends?" he says, deliberately mocking. Maybe he'll get something out of tonight after all. His muscles are already jumping, ready to go.

"Friendlier than you were to that guy in Kansas City," the guy says, sounds almost like he's laughing, and _what the fuck_. He steps closer and Dean stands his ground, but this is—what? "They called an ambulance for that guy in the bathroom. Glass severed a vein. You're a tough customer."

Dean blinks. A streetlight gutters on, on the far side of the parking lot, and it's suddenly a lot easier to see this guy's face, and—oh.

"Guess we got the same taste in bars, huh," the guy says, and yeah—fuck, this is—he was watching Dean, sitting at a booth on the other side of that bar. He didn't think much of it—people watch him, it's part of his life—but he's starting to wish he had some holy water in his jacket, a silver knife at his belt. The blade in his boot is really far away. The guy tilts his head, says, "What," and steps closer, and says, "You're not going to try to scam me?"

Dean's tongue is sour in his mouth. He shrugs, and drains the rest of his beer, and then flips the bottle around in his hand so he's holding the handle like a club. It won't do much. The guy's eyes drop to it, and then drag up his body back to his face. He knows it, too. "Scam's not the point," Dean says. Just buying time, but it's honest, too. He braces his back foot.

The guy smiles, a little. "I can see that," he says, almost gentle—and Dean swings the beer bottle, up and at the guy's temple, and—his arm is caught, easy as nothing. He kicks, right away—nails the guy in the shin and makes him grunt—but his wrist is caught in a steel grip and the guy yanks him in close, pulls him off-balance. Dean winds back a tight punch with his left arm, but it's weak, and there have been—maybe one too many drinks, and the guy yanks his arm, spins him around and shoves him into the bricks of the wall. His jaw clacks, his bruised cheek grazing painfully. Dean rears, tries to stomp his foot down, but the guy's wearing steel-toe boots and he just shoves his knee in between Dean's, yanks his arm back and braces a heavy forearm across Dean's shoulderblades, shoves him harder into the wall.

"Shush," the guy says, and he's hardly even winded. "Come on, tough guy. We can be friends."

"I'm not feeling too friendly," Dean grits out, his cheek pressed hard into the brick. Fuck—that grip on his arm.

The guy laughs, softly. "Can't believe it," he says, quiet, like it's not for Dean to hear. "All the gin joints in all the world, right? And I run into the same pretty scammer twice."

Jesus, he's a cinephile creeper. Dean huffs, tries to yank his arm free and only succeeds in planting bruises deeper under his skin. The guy leans forward and his hips press against Dean's ass. Dean's lips part. He almost forgets. How it goes.

"You're not going to make it easy, are you." It comes warm against the top of his ear and he shudders, from his chest to his fingertips, can't help it. The hips press harder into his ass and there's—fuck, a solid ridge of dick there, no point in being coy about it. The arm lifts off his shoulders and a heavy hand pets over the side of his face that isn't crushed into the wall, over his side, makes him flinch when it touches the deep bruise from the last fight. It settles on his hip, heavy. "Come on, tough guy," he gets, mocking, and when he heaves, when he shoves back, a big hand cups his head and smashes it against the wall, hard, enough that things—wobble.

The bar door opens; country music pours out. Dean makes a—sound, his throat hurting, and his head gets pushed back into the brick. Something smears, wet on his cheek. A car drives by, headlights flashing across his eyes and he has to close them, dizzy. If he gets let go he can get his knife. Fuck leaving this guy alive, he's got to sever his artery and leave him to bleed out. If he gets let go. If he.

He gets let go. "Who the hell—" says someone, and then there's a massive thump as Dean slides down the wall to crouch on his heels. The next few moments are confusing, his head spinning, and there's the sound of solid impacts on meat. He falls on his ass but he manages to get his switchblade out of his boot, flicks it open. It's steady, if nothing else is, and he blinks hard, picks his head up, and sees—Sam. Sam, holding the guy by his shirt and punching him, and again, and again, and blood's pouring out onto the ground, black against the asphalt.

"Sam," he gets out.

Sam glances at him, frowns, and then lets the guy drop. He hits the ground with a solid thump. He stalks over to Dean and Dean pulls back, can't help it, lifts his blade—and Sam catches his arm, same as that guy had, yanks him to his feet like he doesn't weigh anything.

"You idiot," Sam says. It's not—nice. A rough hand tilts his chin and he flails because fuck, that _hurts_ , and Sam snatches his wrist, digs his thumb in so that Dean's hand spasms and he drops his knife. That was important. He sways, drops his head against Sam's chest. He smells right, even if he doesn't sound right. That's something. A hard grip closes over his bicep, through his jacket. He closes his eyes.

*

Streetlights burst through the night in regular intervals. The glass is cool on his cheek. Sam didn’t turn on music and the drive blurs by. So many things hurt.

Their room is on the second floor of the motel, last one by the stairs. Sam nearly carries him up the stairwell, grip bruising. He gets held with an arm around his waist while Sam unlocks the door, held again while Sam shoves it shut behind them and throws the bolt, and then he gets shoved toward the little bathroom, his boots catching and stumbling on the thick brown carpet. "Ow," Dean says, but it's faint. His head's killing him.

Sam's not talking, and his hands hurt. He pulls off Dean's jacket, yanks his shirts over his head. Belt off, jeans unzipped, and then Sam says, flat,  "If I have to untie your shoelaces like a child, I'm walking out."

Dean wobbles to sit on the toilet. Gets his boots off. Sam turns on the shower and strips, efficient, shucking his clothes down to the linoleum until he's a smooth golden-brown vision, naked and beautiful. Dean blinks at him, his mouth open. His dick lays big and soft against his thigh. He's trimmed his pubes down to almost nothing. Saliva floods under Dean's tongue. Long-ago taste memory. It never goes away.

"Jesus," Sam says, almost disgusted, and then Dean's on his feet again. His jeans are shoved off his hips and he's pushed into the shower—lukewarm but getting hotter, and when it hits his skin he shivers all over, his nerves shuddering. Sam says, "Stay still, I don't want you falling and busting open that useless head," and then he's climbing in right behind, slides the door closed and catches Dean firmly around the waist. His hands are so—big. Familiar. Dean sags into him.

Rough cloth, slicked with smearing soap. His chin's taken in firm fingers and tilted up to the spray. Everything smells like fake rainwater and chemical clean. "What did I tell you," Sam says, under his breath. The washrag scrubs hard over one of his bruises and he flinches, but Sam just holds him still and scrubs him to his satisfaction. He's treating Dean like a little kid. A dog.

"Is your brain working yet?" Sam says, after a while. Dean licks his lips under the spray. Nods with his eyes closed. "What the hell, Dean. Are you trying to get killed?"

That's not it. The shower's loud in his ears. The tone is flat, uncaring, when if Dean casts his mind back he can hear the question asked in a different way: _what the hell, man,_ with all of their history and twinned blood pouring up into the space between the words.

A hard grip on his shoulder. "You're getting sloppy," comes the false-familiar voice. "I'm not blind. I remember those fights you used to get into, before you went to hell."

That year—Dean shakes his head. He'd wanted the world ground up and poured right down his throat, like he could fit a life's worth of living into twelve sorry months. This isn't like then. There's no end waiting, no relief on the horizon. His brother's not at his side.

The water turns off, the taps squeaking. The door to the shower rattles open and Sam's warmth disappears. "Get out," Sam says.

Dean's chest hurts. "You're not the boss of me," he says. He forgets to make it jokey sounding. Well, not like Sam will care.

A hand closes around his arm, hurting, right where the other guy had grabbed him. He flinches, but it doesn't matter—Sam pulls him, hard, so he stumbles forward out of the shower pan onto thin towel thrown down as a rug. He's soaked-wet and so is Sam, but he's wobbly on his feet while Sam's rigid and unmovable as marble. He's staring down at Dean. God, he's big. "If you're sloppy I can't trust you on a hunt. If I can't trust you on a hunt, then what am I doing here?"

Dean's whole body jerks with _no_. There's no way. It's bad enough without Sam's soul; with none of him? He blinks up at Sam, the white bathroom light fraying into a corona behind his head. Sam's eyes are narrow, hard, looking down at him, and then he lets go and turns, stalking off into the darker bedroom.

"Sammy," Dean says, thin. Feels like it's pulled out of his gut. Hasn't used the word in—months.

When he falls into the doorway, Sam's crouched by his duffle, rifling through it. Not leaving. Still naked. The lines of him, god. "Get on the bed," Sam says, not looking at him, and Dean's lungs feel like they don't work for a solid five seconds before he stumbles forward. King mattress. The only bed they need. It's still twisted and unmade from how Dean left it this morning. Sam was—out. Dean doesn't know if it was the hunt or running or fucking someone else. It's not in him to ask.

"You're not bleeding anymore," Sam says. He stands up, smooth, and Dean's eyes drop to his dick. Can't help it, not now. "Good. I didn't want to have to give you stitches. Should've made you do them yourself, but if you're going to be that useless I'd just have to pick them out and re-do them. Waste of time."

Dean's hands curl into the rucked-up blanket.

Sam tosses lube onto the bed. A little bottle, two-thirds gone. It rolls up against Dean's fist, glancing against his knuckles with a cool touch of plastic. His stomach twists, a slow weird roll down below his thumping heart, and he blinks at Sam. His head feels strange, slow.

"You know what that’s for," Sam says. He raises his eyebrows. Dean can't read him.

He picks up the bottle and holds it, light in his palm.

Sam comes over to him, stands in front of him. When a big hand grabs his chin Dean doesn't have a choice but to look straight up, his eyes blurring dizzily for a moment before they meet Sam's. They're not—cruel. They're not kind, either.

"Do I have to do it?" Sam says. "Need me to show you?"

Dean blinks, and Sam cocks his head. His thumb rubs over Dean's lips, soft on the first pass and hard when it goes back, smearing the flesh and pulling at the cut. That, somehow. It's that. Dean's balls clench and something curls tight above them. Even through the soap he still smells like Sam.

"Do you remember what you said?" Sam leaves his thumb right in the center of Dean's bottom lip, pressing against his teeth. "When we found out about me."

His knuckles had still hurt from beating in so-wrong face. Castiel had healed Sam, but he didn't heal Dean, and Dean hadn't wanted it, too furious and shocked and his gut lurching with the need to puke. _How the hell didn't you know?_ he'd said, shoveling blame over the skin-crawling horror, and then: _Get away from me._ Sam had frowned, opened his mouth like he was going to argue, and then shrugged, like it was fair enough.

Sam's thumb pushes into his mouth, sliding over his tongue. "If I can't rely on you for a hunt," Sam says, quiet, "if you're not going to be a partner I can trust, then I might as well be babysitting."

Dean's cheeks feel hot. His stomach cramps. "Are you going to say no?" Sam says, smug, because he knows—he knows—and the humiliation floods up in Dean's chest, tight and terrible. All that loneliness and misery and for what. To give it up. He shakes his head, and Sam shoves him back onto the bed, pushing him bodily up the slick coverlet. He plucks the lube out of Dean's limp fist and drizzles some over his fingers, knocks Dean's thighs apart with his knees. Knuckles drag against Dean's asshole and he drags his heels up, makes room automatically. Sam doesn't wait, just shoves in two fingers past the resistance, and _oh_ it stings but it feels—god, it's been a long time.

"Still drunk?" Sam says. He slides his other hand around Dean's dick, only half-hard. "Good thing no one's asking you to fuck them, huh." Dean turns his face away but his hips jerk regardless, and harder when Sam cups his balls. His fingers pump in and out of Dean's ass, thick stiff heat that's not nearly as much as Sam's packing below. "You know, you're lucky. I'm using lube. What do you think that guy would've done?"

"Fuck, Sam," Dean groans. He clenches, his asshole clamping around the intrusion.

"Yeah, that's it," Sam says. "You're lucky I came looking. You didn't even notice his truck, did you? That red F-350? He was at the bar back in Kansas. I bet he saw you and thought, that'll be easy. Drunk pretty boy who doesn't know when he's bitten off more than he can chew."

It curls in his stomach, more painful than the bruises and cuts he's carrying. Sam's fingers roll, drag all over his insides, and it's starting to feel good. Dean's already breathing hard, his fingers curling into the comforter. When he dares look down, Sam's hard. Big, swelling out in a heavy curve over those heavier balls. Sam catches him looking and smiles, his fingers curling up.

Dean's sweating, his heat all trapped and caught against the bed. "He was as big as me," Sam says, thoughtful. His fingers tug out of Dean and he jacks himself, makes himself gleam in the light, and then he pushes forward, no preamble and no asking. Dean flinches, his body trying to get away without any input from his brain, but it doesn't matter—Sam grabs his hips, hauls them up and onto Sam's thighs, like it's nothing. He blooms open around Sam, stretching terribly, his weight smashed down onto his shoulders, and he can hardly breathe but that doesn't matter, either. Sam's dick crushes in and he grabs at anything—Sam's hands, his thigh—tries to ground himself, but Sam catches his wrists, holds them tight in one hand while he shoves all the way in. Fuck, _fuck_ —it hurts, it feels good. Dean can't even tell the difference. His head's spinning, again.

"Hey." When Dean doesn't respond Sam snaps his fingers. Dean's eyes struggle open. He's panting, his mouth wide. "Feel this," Sam says, snapping his hips. His hand brutally tight around Dean's wrists. Dean's thighs tremble, splayed undignified around Sam's hips. He digs his shoulders into the mattress, tries to get some leverage, and Sam shakes his head, pulls Dean's arms so hard that he's yanked off the bed entirely, pulled up dizzily until he's seated all the way in Sam's lap, his wrists still caught, his weight off-balance and not his own. Sam braces one arm at the low pit of his back and holds his eyes, fucks up into him again. Dean's hips arch into it, his legs wrapping around Sam's waist.

"You're so easy," Sam says, almost dispassionate, almost disappointed. Dean squeezes his eyes closed, squirming, but then—Sam's screwing him, hips grinding up into him, and he's so thick and deep that no matter how he moves it feels good, so good that Dean's quivering, letting himself go, tipped back against Sam's bracing arm to just fall into it. Oh, god, he's missed this, missed it terribly—missed it for a year, for longer, Sam's body all over him, in him, around him. His skin, the smell of his hair. His dick, familiar, the heavy weight of it busting him open. He can't move his hands because Sam doesn't want him to, can't do anything but feel all that pressure, building and building, his thighs and belly and asshole all tightening up, bypassing his dick to coil up into his balls.

"You're going to come, aren't you," Sam says, into the hot sweaty dark between them. Smug, a little breathless. His breath warm against Dean's throat. "Your dick's not even hard. Maybe I should've let that guy fuck you, huh?"

Dean spasms, whispers: _Sam._ Sam lets his wrists go, finally, his hands flashing down to grab Dean by the waist, holding him firm in place while he works his hips harder, grinding straight up against Dean's prostate where oh, god—something's starting, making his whole body quiver under the oversensitive shudder of his skin.

"Come on," Sam says, sliding one hand up, catching Dean's neck in one of those big awful hands. He tugs him down, curls him so that his face is tucked against a broad sweating shoulder, one thumb pressed threateningly over Dean's thundering pulse. His hips snap, rhythmic, terrible, and Dean can barely take it. Into his ear Sam says, not coaxing but telling: "Come. I want to feel you come."

It ripples out from his middle, deeper and weirder, not like any time before. He's dribbling wet out of his dick but there's none of the satisfying quick pulse of unloading. Sam drops him back on the bed and his head bounces, painful, but it's so distant to the shuddering inside him that he hardly registers it—he registers more when Sam shoves his legs up and thrusts into him, a quick hammering that rattles Dean against the bed. God—Sam's so big and it feels _so_ good, shivering out more and more until he's so oversensitive that he's whining, wet running out of his eyes, his belly cramping with the awful too-much pleasure.

When Sam finally comes Dean's a mess, sweating and shivering on the bed. Sam crams his dick in, hard, pumping deep. He grunts, then sighs, his hair hanging down and brushing over Dean's face. Dean's thighs hurt from being shoved open for so long, but he can't help it, he drags his knees up, clenches Sam close. Sam's eyes open, after a moment, and he looks down at Dean.

"I'm going to keep fucking you," Sam says. He hasn't pulled out; his dick's still solid inside Dean, keeping him open. Like conquered territory. He slides his hand down Dean's wet belly to where his dick's soft, small. Sam plays with it, smearing his thumb over the wet head, and Dean shudders so hard that his teeth clack together. "You're not going to go out and get into stupid fights. Are you."

Dean has to swallow, twice, before he can speak. "You're not in charge," he manages, but it's barely more voice than breath.

He gets a calculating look, and then Sam leans in and knocks his mouth open, kisses him, _finally_. It's an invasion. Dean can hardly keep up, and when Sam pulls out, below, with a stinging tug of too-much, he just gasps against Sam's tongue and clutches him tight.

Sam tugs back, though. Sits up on his knees between Dean's broken-open legs. "You want to keep me here," Sam says. "You want me hunting with you, working with you. Trying to get my soul back."

Dean licks his lips and starts to scoot back, away. Sam's hand snaps down to hold his thigh, holding him in place. He gets a direct look, and then Sam leans forward and puts his hand flat on the big bruise over Dean's ribs, presses down enough that Dean's hands fly to his wrist.

"You're weak," Sam says. Matter-of-fact. Makes Dean want to punch him in the face, and he would if he weren't trying to stop his lungs from collapsing. "I don't care about your feelings, not really, but I need you sharp, need you on your game. If you're not going to do that then I'll do it for you. If you want to get hurt, or whatever stupid thing you're trying to pull with this, then I'll do that for you too. That, or I'm gone."

Dean curls his fingers into Sam's forearm. Fuck, this hurts. "Don't—fuck other people." Sam blinks at him. Surprise, at last. Dean squirms, feels the come leaking out of him, his arms starting to shake. He's starting to think maybe the rib is out of alignment, this hurts so much. "God, Sam, stop it!"

He doesn't pull back, though—just searches Dean's face, eyes slightly narrowed. "Deal," he says, at last, and Dean doesn't remember what he asked for until Sam pulls back and the bruise throbs like the world's about to end. He's going to be purple across his whole side.

He pants, hands lightly holding his side, but then Sam catches his wrists again. Drags them up and pins them into the mattress on either side of his head. He leans in, puts his weight into it. Dean's heels draw up, dragging over the blanket. Sam's eyes are steady.

"I want you to say it." His shoulders are blocking the light from the bathroom, his expression still. Dean stares up at him, the pain blooming in his wrists. In his chest. "No more bull, no more fucking up in bars. You're going to come to me."

He couldn't budge Sam if he tried. He doesn't try. He can feel his face heating up, the squirm in his belly. He wants to say no. "Yeah," he says, cracked, and watches the satisfaction smooth that stranger's face. He closes his eyes. When he takes a long careful breath, all he can smell is Sam. It's better than nothing. It has to be.

**Author's Note:**

> from an original prompt by Theboys -- not quite what you asked for, but I hope it still satisfies. :)
> 
>  
> 
> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](http://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/176400321424/detente)


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